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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29834751">Onstage</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/immapoisonyou/pseuds/immapoisonyou'>immapoisonyou</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Original Domains [9]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Original domain, Original fear domain, The Eye Fear Domain (The Magnus Archives), The Lonely Fear Domain (The Magnus Archives), The Stranger Fear Domain (The Magnus Archives)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 21:34:27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>591</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29834751</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/immapoisonyou/pseuds/immapoisonyou</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Original Domains [9]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2132307</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Onstage</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>CONTENT WARNING<br/>
Uncanny Valley<br/>
Social Anxiety<br/>
Injury (broken bone)<br/>
Infection<br/>
Amnesia<br/>
Paranoïa<br/>
Depersonalization<br/>
Blood<br/>
Rejection<br/>
Injury<br/>
Rejection<br/>
Deformed reality<br/>
Anxiety/Panic<br/>
Hypothermia</p><p>“I hate being onstage. I hate feeling the audience’s eyes. I hate it.”  Cora thinks to herself. She knows it’s just an exam. She desperately tries to convince herself she hates being in front of the audience. She doesn’t. Not really. She’s just terrified of the audience. She’s terrified of their eyes. Their empty sockets, staring at her. She’s terrified of the other actors. She’s terrified at the possibility of her mistakes. Everything needs to be perfect. She cannot allow herself any errors. She can’t. Still, the creeping certitude of an inevitable disaster slowly but surely wraps around her silenced throat.<br/>
She waits in her lounge, alone with the mask she needs to wear. It's an ancient mask, so ancient she feels it ever so slightly crumbling under her shaking fingers, leaving a dry dust on her hands. The cold and rusty mask smells of rusty iron, of blood.<br/>
The stage manager knocks on the door. A faint smell of rust flows in. The door opens. Judgmental eyes, filled with disgust glare at Cora. She has to go now. What piece are they presenting? Cora cannot remember. She is convinced that everyone knows but her. She could ask, of course she could, but the bare idea of seeing the utter disgust in their eyes is sufficient to make that silent panic of imminent catastrophe tightens, shortening her already suffocating breath.<br/>
“The other actors are already on stage. You’re late” the stage manager says, in a tone of incredible disappointment.<br/>
She runs to the stage. She runs on the stage and crashes into an actor, already doing the monologue she was supposed to do. She feels their ribs breaking under the impact, like twigs. The actor doesn’t seem to notice at all, simply looking at Cora with blank eyes. There’s nothing in those eyes. They are completely blank.<br/>
A dozen of actors look at Cora with the same eyes. Half of them start laughing hysterically. Antique masks barely hide the colour draining out of their faces as they collapse on the ground, trapped in a mad laughter. Still, she can see their eyes. They are staring at her. The other half of actors cry in painful lamentations. They cry tears of pus and blood, dripping on the scene in thick puddles.<br/>
In a reflex of absolute terror, Cora brutally turns her head towards the audience. Hundreds, thousands, hundreds of thousands of faceless statues, except for two empty holes where the eyes are supposed to be. All of them staring at her. Only her. One of them, one of an uncountable amount of people, only one, wears a mask. An uncanny realistic mask of her own visage. This isn’t right. It's her face, why are they wearing it?<br/>
The stage manager appears behind her, grabbing her arm with so much force her bone breaks.<br/>
“Who are you? What are you doing on stage? It's for real actors only” he says with a malicious smile. His lips break under the smile and blood leaks down his chin.<br/>
“Cora! Get in the dressing room”<br/>
The imposter in the crowd gets up.<br/>
As Cora gets thrown out on the cold street, hitting her head on the rough pavement. The rain falls on her, ice cold. She shivers violently, and falls asleep with the absolute certitude she will never wake up.<br/>
She will wake up again, back in her lounge, hating the stage. Once again.</p>
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